You can count me out. My arms are too sore to continue. It's almost dawn and how I long to lie with my love. This meager pittance of a nights work might afford a cup of coffee and bus fare. Hopefully the driver will allow me on tonight with the tools of my trade.

Such is life for a man of little talent. I read once that in order to be truly happy your name must match your occupation. Sort of like, George would be a Geologist. Or a Dennis is destined to become a Dentist. So what was Mom thinking when she named me Womack?? I'd become woe, well woe is me.

I knew that damn driver wouldn't let me on the bus! I told him there wasn't any gas in them! I'll walk the twenty blocks again, collapse on that cardboard, and try to block out the noise of a thriving metropolis. My arms are so sore but I need to get back to my Baby.

One day I'll lay these chainsaws down for the last time and be done with them. People always ask why I juggle without them running. Well juggling is hard enough without having to explain city noise ordinances! Plus, have you seen the price of gas? Or even a gas station in midtown?

I know you're thinking, why? Why chainsaws? When there are much smaller and lighter objects that could be used. Because juggling comes easy so it has to be made hard. And remember I am a man of little talent. Now please stop with your senseless drivel about opportunities and expectations!

I juggle chainsaws in this woe is me state...